


It is an Ill Wind

by lanyon



Category: The Iliad - Homer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 01:22:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13043580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: Odysseus scurries between tents, unsure what to get the man who has everything, and the Goddesses are amused.





	It is an Ill Wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ancslove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancslove/gifts).



There is no poetry in herding cats, or scurrying between tents on a beach that is sandy and then stony in turn. 

There is certainly poetry in Achaean eyes brimming with tears, reflecting the stars and the moon and the seeping, blood-red sea.

Odysseus would prefer to be barefoot and take his chances with the sharp rocks. As it is, he takes his chances between a rock and a hard head. He wonders whether the gods laugh at him and his Sisyphian task of mediating between idiots.

An aside: If a king cannot call a brace of kings idiotic, there is no such thing as royal privilege. Odysseus would sooner flee this place before Achilles’ thunderous rumblings revert to lightning strikes and the damp sand beneath Odysseus’ feet becomes treacherous glass for no other reason than it is the will of Zeus, or of Achilles.

It is not hubris or even understatement to compare Achilles to Zeus; he is a thundercloud contained in a tent, while Zephyrus and Boreas swirl around outside, ill winds, ill-suited to good news.

*

—It is circles within circles.

Goddesses sit around Hestia’s fire, divine toes seeking warmth at her hearth.

—It is swings and roundabouts.

—It is always about women.

—As it should be. 

Yes, as it should be. They nod, and Hera touches Hebe’s hair. 

—He says that prayers are daughters of Zeus.

(Scornful laughter.)

—I am a daughter of Zeus.

—More a migraine. 

—Paris steals Helen, Agamemnon steals Briseis, and wars break out and all because of your unorthodox method of fruit redistribution, Aphroditie.

(A hair toss.)

—Don’t be a hater.

—Look at Odysseus scurry. Little war-like mouse.

—You should have given him the apple.

—He would only have kept it for his wife. 

 

*

If they were not in the middle of a war, Odysseus would enjoy spending time with Achilles and Patroclus. Their warm domesticity is stark against the burning, constant threat of Hector’s forces and the constant worry that their boats will be set alight.

It is a constant state of indigestion and now they must eat more food. Patroclus offers a sacrifice to the gods and goddesses and Odysseus offers a prayer that he can find more space to eat after the extravagance of Agamemnon’s feast.

Men cannot march on empty stomachs, but Odysseus wishes to be able to buckle his belt. 

It does not take much to inflate Achilles’ sense of self-importance. Any fool knows this, and Odysseus is not a fool.

An aside: Odysseus is a fool. Only a fool would sit in Achilles’ tent and expect satisfaction. 

He glances at Patroclus, who sits quietly and, lit by the fire, appears no less golden than Achilles. 

_He, too, is Achilles_ , is an unbidden thought, to be filed away and examined when Odysseus does not have goddamned meat sweats and the discomfort of being Achilles’ sole focus of attention.

Odysseus offers what Agamemnon told him to offer; he is a salesman and Achilles is breaking his heart. He has a family to feed, he can’t go any lower, but he’ll throw in one of Agamemnon’s daughters, too. 

All Odysseus is doing, as any fool knows, is proving Achilles’ worth to Achilles. Achilles knows it. Ajax knows it. Sleepy Phoenix knows it. 

Achilles sprawls, his hand idling on Patroclus’ thigh. 

Fool, fool. The man wants for nothing. 

*

“I thought he’d never leave.” Achilles’ words are a crushed whisper against Patroclus’ mouth.

“Phoenix—”

“ _Achilles_.”

Patroclus laughs. “Phoenix is right there.”

“He’s a heavy sleeper and very old.”

“Achilles, Odysseus has a good point.”

“There was a point in all of those pretty words? How intelligent of you to pick out one thorn from a thicket of brambles.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, dear Achilles.” Patroclus doesn’t shy away from Achilles’ mouth on the side of his neck. Achilles will dig his teeth in, and he will dig his heels in, and Patroclus could sooner sack Troy single-handedly than he could make Achilles budge. 

“Will it get me here?” Achilles’ hand glides up the inside of Patroclus’ thigh. His fingers are feather-soft. 

“Yes,” says Patroclus. “No. We need to talk about Odysseus.”

“First Phoenix, now Odysseus. Soon, you’ll want to talk about Agamemnon in bed.”

“Too crowded,” says Patroclus. “Too— _oh_.”

“Let’s talk in the morning,” says Achilles, as though the light here ever changes, as though the days ever change, as though Patroclus’ own world and own conquest has ever existed outside this tent.

They will not talk in the morning. Patroclus knows this as surely as he knows that the days do change, and the sun does rise, and set, far above the black plumes of smoke.

He lets Achilles guide him back to the furs on the ground and he lets Achilles spread him open and when Achilles’ hand closes around Patroclus’ cock, Patroclus can’t help but giggle.

“You’ll wake Phoenix,” says Achilles, disgruntled that his prowess hasn’t reduced Patroclus to rapt silence. “Why are you laughing?”

“Only that it is well that Odysseus isn’t here to see you go straight for the spear again.”

Achilles stares down at Patroclus, and roars with laughter, and he is shaking too much to do anything but lower himself on top of Patroclus and hold on.

*

Odysseus trudges. 

It’s all he can do. 

He trudges back to Agamemnon’s tent and Ajax has the good sense to stay quiet. Agamemnon will be disappointed but surely not surprised. Agamemnon could have given Achilles his own crown, his own wife; he could have promised him Helen herself and Achilles would have inclined his head and acknowledged his worth and he would have said no. 

It is easy to dismiss Achilles as a spoiled child. 

(Odysseus wonders how Telemachus is; hopefully, he is not a brat but with a mother like Penelope, it seems unlikely.)

No. It is no use. Achilles is a spoiled child. He is a cat, who will not be moved from her spot; not with promises of fish or cream or mice with which to toy. She knows that all of these things are her due; her paws are planted primly and she will not be moved until she decides to be moved. She will not be moved until she believes that it is her idea. 

The ships may burn and Achilles will turn his face to the flames, feet planted firmly, fingernail crescents red on his thighs. 

“Nothing for it,” Odysseus says. “Nothing for it but to tell Agamemnon to get off his kingly behind and lead from the front.”

“He is still the king of our forces,” says Ajax. “Why not be the hero, too?”

“Zeus did say that Agamemnon would overthrow Troy,” says Odysseus. 

“Gods can change their minds.”

Gods can change their minds, perhaps even before the cat opens one eye, and stirs.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide to ancslove. I hope this hit the spot; book 9 was a fun one to sink into.  
> Many thanks to M, for keeping me on the straight and narrow.


End file.
